


Musings of a Zoologist at Sea and the Unbelievable Events that Ensued

by poetesmaudits



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Barricade Day 2020, Canon Era, Gen, M/M, Multi, Typical Period Attitudes, Typical Romantic Behaviour, bullying bonapartists, cheerfully anachronistic, potentially blasphemous content (linked to catholicism), zoologist Combeferre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24510469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetesmaudits/pseuds/poetesmaudits
Summary: After a storm at sea that flung him overboard, Combeferre awakes in a cave where he seems to be taken care of by rather strange individuals.
Relationships: Bahorel/Jean Prouvaire, Combeferre & Jean Prouvaire, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	Musings of a Zoologist at Sea and the Unbelievable Events that Ensued

**Author's Note:**

> although i decided not to use archive warnings, i would still like to warn the readers that this fic contains non-gory descriptions of injuries, and some lowkey idealisation/romanticisation of death among other edgy Romantic themes. there are also some anticlerical discourses (in relation to christianity and more specifically catholicism), but nothing very intense. please take care!
> 
> (also don't feel discouraged by the fact that the beginning is written as journal entries, most of the fic is written in classic prose.)

_Monday, the sixteenth of March eighteen-twenty-nine, 13h._

Departed from M. yesterday aboard L'Intrépide. Weather favourable with decreasing nebulosities, no signs of rain. Temp. 12°C. No sightings as of yet.

I share my cabin with a young man who may or may not be my age and with whom I have not yet had the opportunity to speak—he was asleep in the bottom bunk when I first encountered him and I could only in the faint moonlight filtering through the porthole read the word 'baron' on his trunk. He has so far not expressed any desires to make conversation with me and I am therefore not seeking to converse with him in return.

Yesterday was spent attempting to stay out of the way and waiting for my body to adapt to the rocking of the ship (it has not yet). I was never one destined for the sailor's life and have always taken more time to adapt than most to sea sickness. Yesterday and this morning were thus spent hanging over the side of the ship with another poor fellow who seemed in an as pitiful state as mine. I did not catch his name, however he does seem quite the eccentric type, deducing from his rather peculiar, bohemian appearance. A Romantic, no doubt. I shan't have much difficulty spotting him among the sailors in the future. 

_ Tuesday, the seventeenth of March eighteen-twenty-nine, 21h.  _

Fluctuating weather with rising winds, increasing nebulosities, risks of mild rain. Temp. 18°C, +/-11°C w/ wind. Sightings: cf. sketches next p.

I have had the opportunity to speak with my sea sickness partner during and after supper (fish stew does not bode well with an uneasy stomach). He introduced himself as Jehan Prouvaire and is a native from Camargue. He is heading to Egypt to reignite his verve of inspiration and connect with cultures which France has severed ties with, in his own words. I was too polite to point out the fact that much of what France did over there was destroy, murder and steal, which perhaps it is why ties were severed in the first place. I however did not want to create tensions in between us, and simply explained my own motives for this trip. We held incredibly interesting conversations on archaeology, a subject which we both seem to be fascinated by, though for altogether very different reasons—I do hope we get to have more interesting discussions of the kind.

My aristocratic bunkmate, if he can be referred to as such, is a young linguist named Marius Pontmercy. The reasons behind his presence aboard this ship are obscure and I do not quite understand them, and I have therefore decided not to question them—as it turns out we have very different perceptions of politics and life in general and I have no desires to interact with a bonapartist more than it is absolutely necessary. He is snoring as we speak.

_ Sunday, the twenty-second of March eighteen-twenty-nine, 11h.  _

Passed Cors., Sar. and Sic. Approaching clouds on the horizon, but no promises of a storm (white clouds, sky was not red last night). Temp. 16°C. Unusually clear waters allowed remarkable sightings (cf. sketches next p.). Full moon on 3 April.

J.P. and I have had more intricate conversations and I have learned in the past few days that he is a poet (it is still unclear whether he is a student too or not). We have many interesting conversations and despite what one may think, there are many common points in between a poet and a scientist—for instance, he is fascinated by any mythology related to the sea or the land or the heavens and respects, perhaps even worships them with equal reverence. While I may not be a god-fearing man, there are still an infinite amount of subjects which one may speak of, such as the existence of creatures which many a man have claimed to have sighted throughout our history and have sung about in myths and folktales, notably sea creatures which are rumored to harbour the waters we are currently sailing upon. I naturally am not expecting to have to tie myself to a mast to resist the cries of the Greek sirens as we approach the Ionian sea, but I do believe that there may be many creatures whose existence we cannot even fathom lurking in these deep waters. Prouvaire seems particularly fond of mermaids and nymphs and whatnots, and has spoken a great deal of the exhibits held in London in 1822, showcasing a mermaid who would have apparently been captured in the Antilles or Jamaican islands, and which turned out to be a true horror of a thing; a sort of hybrid in between a monkey and a fish. Indeed I have heard about these myself and informed him that those had turned out to be scams created to bring in as much money to those organising the event, and this seemed to reassure P, for he now speaks again of the great beauty of those sea creatures and their lovely, enthralling singing, and how he would let them drown him in an instant if they came to us, for surely there is no greater romance than to die, seduced by a creature than wishes to devour you. His notions and ideals of love and seduction which are quite often verging on outright morbidity do tend to surprise me quite a lot, and I try not to comment on the unhealthy connections he tends to make in between carnal love and death.

In truth I doubt we shall find such creatures in these waters; the last sightings to have been reported were by the English coasts in 1809. Perhaps they prefer the cold, grey waters of the north to the warmer, clearer ones of the Mediterranean—after all the Greeks did not speak once of mermaids; the Assyrians spoke of mermen, the Romans of mermaids during the conquering of Gaul, all of western Europe seems to have mermaids in its medieval mythology, John Smith claims to have seen green haired and fish tailed women when in the Americas, it is said that similar sightings have been confirmed in the East and Yellow seas, but there are no signs of them here in these waters. If so many cultures however have integrated them into their folklore independently to foreign influence, then certainly it must be that mermaids do exist, at least somewhere in this world.

_ Wednesday, the twenty-fifth of March eighteen-twenty-nine, 14h. _

Greece in a week for food supplies. Rising temp.: 20°C, but 16° w/ strong wind. Sighting of unusually large sized octopus, cf. sketches and dimensions, mid Ionian. Very exciting despite wariness of sailors.

It turns out my bunkmate is not an aristocrat but rather a very religious man, which is to be expected from someone who worships tyrants. We got in an argument last night which ended in him citing the merits of B. and me having the last word and outsmarting him, evidently. He stormed off and did not come back to sleep. I do not know where did he find refuge and in all honesty I do not care much.

But! I am very excited about that octopus. Of course it is not big enough to capsize our ship, however it could easily seize one or eight men with its tentacles. We did not capture it of course but it seems to be attracted to L'Intrépide, for I saw it a total of four times in one morning. J.P. made many jokes about being eaten by the octopus like in those great tales from the Atlantic which made a poor Alsacian man faint, and now his wife is very much angry and will not stop throwing us terrible, reproachful looks. I am spending considerably more time with P. who has become a friend during this trip and whom I hope to stay in touch with. We call each other thou and spend many days discussing and debating about all sorts of matters, from politics to the existence of God, from art to science, etc. Despite being the most eclectic couple on board, we complement each other greatly and have a great deal in common which makes it easy to understand each other and communicate. We have already promised each other to meet up in Gizeh, which we are both headed to at one point or another during our respective trips.

_ Saturday, the twenty-eighth of March eighteen-twenty-nine, 22h. _

Uneventful. Rising winds, risks of upcoming storm (red sky + looming clouds). Temp. 7°C. No sightings (troubled waters).

P. was sick today and the day was consequently spent dawdling on the deck and readjusting my sketches from the other days. The octopus is still on my mind; some sailors say it is a bad omen, but I do not believe in such superstitions, and see it merely as one of those many curiosities of nature where an animal is naturally attracted to something as peculiar as a ship. My guts have finally become used to the rocking of the waves and I can now eat the fish stew without feeling as though I will vomit as soon as the food touches my tongue. This however does not appear to be the case for my poor fellow P.

My bunkmate has come back to sleep in our cabin and we simply do not speak to each other, which is for the best. He reads until 22h, but I until midnight, and he is too timid to ask for me to blow my candle out (I do not think I would comply if he asked me to). As I said the day was uneventful and I spent it talking with the Alsacian man P. made faint and his wife, who truly are not disagreeable company, even if they hold rather primitive and misconstructed conceptions of Egypt and the Ottoman Empire in general. It is clear it is their first time out of metropolitan France and I am quite surprised they would pick Egypt as their very first destination—they have informed me however that they are very fond of tales of mummies and cursed emerald beetles, and I was too kind to inform them that they will possibly be very disappointed upon arrival.

_ Wednesday, the first of April eighteen-twenty-nine, 20h. _

Still Ionian Sea. High winds. Chances of storm in upcoming days: 60%+ (radical increase of nebulosity, strong, whipping winds, troubled waters). Temp. 8°C. No sightings due to meteorological circumstances).

The current weather is more than concerning and the whole ship is bracing itself for the incoming storm. The sky has been white for days and the high winds forebode nothing good. I have been feeling sick again as of late and spend most of the day in my cabin, lying down and letting my bunkmate bring me some fish stew in an act of great kindness and benevolence—perhaps he is attempting to fraternise with me. I shall see what are his opinions on the Jacobins and make decisions based on his answer.

P. spends most of his days woefully composing sonnets about dying at sea and it is slowly becoming unnerving in the current climate. He spends long hours in the intimacy of my small cabin and sits at the tiny desk which shifts right and left against the wall with every rocking of the ship, and he writes like this, occasionally asking for my opinion on the twist of a verse or a line, on the richness of a rhyme, on the lyricism of his odes. I have not one ounce of poetry in my blood and it is therefore very difficult for me to help him, making at best _antiseptique_ rhyme with _biologique_. He told me as an answer that this is what all mediocre poets (which he is not, according to his own standards, of course) do. He left only when my bunkmate came back and gave me a knowing look.

-

The storm comes on the third of April, which coincidentally is on the same night as the full moon. It is violent and inescapable, and every man on board is called on deck to help. Combeferre has never worked a day in his life at sea and does not know the smallest thing about knots, port and starboard, winds, sails, or measures. The air is cold and thick with electric tension and the wind is harsh, cruel, whipping their body and face with a violent, humid strength, and soon he wishes he could adorn a dress and sit under deck with the ladies. He feels useless more than anything else. His hands are covered in blisters already and every tug on a rope, every time he holds onto something or transports a heavy object bellow deck with another man he feels the uncomfortable heat slowly morphing into a painful burn. Prouvaire seems to be dealing with similar circumstances. Both are so-called intellectuals, they have never done a day's work on a manual job, and definitely not on a ship despite having both already been on boats before. Combeferre is certain he is a nuisance to the sailors more than anything else, even when he is asked to pull on ropes with all his weight and strength as he cannot see a thing with his glasses covered in rain and sea water. His shoes slip on the wood and feel like ponds with every reinforced tug of the rope he gives.

A sailor somewhere yells about bad omens and curses of the sea, and how surely this is the work of the devil, but Combeferre refuses to listen. In the distance he sees Pontmercy leaning over the edge of the boat, probably puking, and for a moment the zoologist wonders if the other man even has an ounce of intelligence in his brain or if he is very much decided to die at sea. He calls his name, but his voice goes unnoticed in the deafening, thundering noise of the storm, of the boat creaking, of the waves crashing, of the men screaming, of the rain falling, and soon enough he is forced to look away to focus on his task at hand. When he looks back at where he had been, Pontmercy is gone.

“Man o'er board!” shouts someone near him who seems to have noticed this too. Another sailor approaches the edge of the boat where Pontmercy has fallen, but announces that there is no way of finding him. Another man comes to see and confirms that the waves have already swallowed him

There is a numb feeling setting in his heart which is similar to grief but which he has no time to dwell on, for already more orders are yelled around as the waves grow considerably taller. Multiple times Combeferre slips and falls and narrowly misses falling overboard as the boat tips dangerously. Prouvaire is no where in sight and Combeferre simply wishes for him to be safe, and perseveres in his tasks. The fear all men aboard feel is palpable and all are pushing themselves to their limits to try and save the ship from capsizing, even after a rope snaps and lets one of the edges of a sail let loose, whipping in the wind. One of the men who was holding onto that rope is propelled overboard.

It is perhaps an hour later, when his muscles begin to strain and his whole body is about to collapse with exhaustion that a gigantic wave rises above their heads, and Combeferre barely has the time to look up at it in horror as it rises above their heads and understand what is happening before it comes unfurling onto the boat, slamming onto the deck with such force and violence that he is immediately tipped off his feet and slams against the railing with a painful cry, slips, free falls for what feels like minutes but really could not be more than a couple of seconds, then crashes flat on his back into the ice cold water. All air is knocked out of his lungs on the impact and before he can attempt to inhale, he sinks and swallows large gulps of sea water, making him cough. The panic mounts immediately. He attempts to swim back to the surface without quite knowing which way is up, but finds that his limbs will not move, will not collaborate, and he can only watch in horror as his body sinks deeper and deeper, weighed down by his coat and belongings. Slowly the ship becomes a faint spot in the distance, and he feels his senses leaving him. His ears whistle painfully from the underwater pressure and his vision slowly fades the deeper he drifts. When he senses human arms around his waist, he lets his mind black out

-

It appears that he is not dead.

He knows this for he sees light through his eyelids and voices in the distance, and he knows better than to believe in something as preposterous as heaven. The voices are hushed and cryptic and although they are unmistakably human, Combeferre is incapable of discerning what they are saying, and whether they're speaking French or not. He coughs and coughs and coughs and hands are immediately there to help him, and as soon as he is done his brain simply drifts off again into fevered nightmares.

In truth he does not know how much time passes by, and for how long he has been unconscious. Only he knows he is being taken care of for his mouth is not as dry as it ought to be after being exposed to a near drowning experience and he has not yet starved to death, and he hears regularly voices speaking in soft tones not too far away. He also knows that logically he is suffering from a more or less severe concussion, but most of the time his mind is too fuzzy and blurred for any rational thinking to be produced, and he thus lets his kind hosts take care of him while he recovers.

After what he thinks must be a week, he regains full consciousness and he is (thankfully) able to move his limbs again. He knows this for he moves his fingers first and feels that he is in fact lying in sand in nothing but his shirt, and when he opens his eyes, he sees a face peering down at him with great curiosity and at a proximity that makes Combeferre jump and let out a frightened gasp. The person retreats and shrinks back into the water. It appears they're in some sort of cave with a direct access to the sea, and Combeferre finds it rather strange that these people would keep him here instead of bringing him to a house or maybe even a hospital. He however does not comment on it for certainly they have their reasons, and he instead focuses on the person who is now half immersed in the undoubtedly cold water.

They appear to be a young individual of perhaps about the same age as his, maybe a bit younger, with very long, dark hair. His bare shoulders are exposed to the cool air of the cave and Combeferre wonders if he is wearing any clothes at all. He assumes he must have landed on an island where the people are still living undisturbed lives that are not yet influenced by the growing industrialisation of Europe, and that simply this is a culture which is still unheard of in France. He wishes he could see the person's face more clearly, but he has lost his glasses, leaving his astigmatic self as blind as a bat.

“ _Bonjour_?” he dares, and the person seems to be tilting their head. They answer something in a language that is definitely not French and Combeferre already feels himself deflate. He tries again, “ _Où suis-je_?” (Where am I?)

The person repeats something in their own tongue, and Combeferre tries to focus on their words, to at least identify the language, but it is an agonising process—his mind still very much feels like scrambled eggs. It only dawns after too long that it is ancient Greek. His head falls back, half out exhaustion, half out of despair, and the person already makes a motion to heave themselves out of the water, but then ceases when they see that Combeferre is alright. Combeferre is indeed alright; simply he had never been good at Greek in his school years and had never studied it as much as he had Latin. He has to painfully scrape the depths of his brain to formulate a more or less coherent sentence and manages to repeat his question in that language.

“Corfu,” says the person, and Combeferre slowly nods his head. He knows, rationally, that the inhabitants of Corfu no longer speak ancient Greek, and that he has therefore either fallen into the hands of a strange cult or of a very kind hermit who is bending over backwards to try and communicate with him. He wishes to ask them if they speak any other language than the one they're currently speaking, but does not know how to formulate such a complicated sentence, and he soon gives up.

He points at himself and says, “Combeferre.”

The person moves their hand and possibly points at themselves in a mimicked manner (all Combeferre can see is a terribly blurred figure) and says in a kind voice: “Courfeyrac.”

Combeferre wishes to ask more questions, but the language barrier is so strong he cannot say anything. He shifts from his lounging position in the sand and sits up all while trying to hide with modesty his exposed intimacy, despite the other person not seeming to care much at all, having probably been the one to take his clothes off in the first place. He decides to postpone this problem to later and asks; “ _Latine loqueris_?” (do you speak Latin?)

To his great relief, Courfeyrac answers; “ _Loqueri_.” (I do.)

The conversation becomes easier after this, even if there are many hesitations and miscommunications coming from both sides, though mostly from Combeferre who sometimes uses medieval Latin, whereas Courfeyrac speaks the true, unbastardised tongue of Pliny, Virgil and Ovid. They speak for a bit, Combeferre asks if Courfeyrac has seen anyone else from the shipwreck, if he knows how did he get here, who brought him, if he was alone, but Courfeyrac gives little to no information, which makes Combeferre grow increasingly more frustrated. He is left assuming that he is the sole survivor. He asks if Courfeyrac was the one to take care of him here and that at least he answers clearly and affirmatively. He tries again to ask about languages, but soon learns that Courferyrac speaks many ancient tongues long forgotten by contemporary civilisations, but no modern ones which Combeferre may speak fluently. Gradually the chances that he was in fact abducted by a strange cult advocating a return to Hellenism becomes more probable and Combeferre silently prays that they are not keeping him here for obscure reasons he cannot even begin to fathom.

“And my clothes?” he eventually asks, “Where are they?”

“Drying,” says Courfeyrac.

“Where?”

“Out on the beach, there is no reason for concern,” Combeferre nods slowly and Courfeyrac might be smiling at him, “Well, I must go. I, or maybe a friend will be back to feed you tonight. In the meantime, try to not move too much. You might have broken, or at least badly bruised ribs according to our doctor.”

The reasons as to why a doctor would leave an injured man alone in a cave are unknown and rather absurd to Combeferre, and the look he gives Courfeyrac might be one of consternation, for the other young man simply smiles again and leaves, diving under water. Combeferre is not sure if he is dreaming or really does see giant green fins.

-

He spends hours lying there in the sand, twirling the situation in his mind and trying to make sense of what has happened. The possibility that he is dreaming all of this is high, however he does not believe his mind would be able to function as rationally as it currently is were it all another figment of his imagination while he remains in a comatosed state elsewhere, perhaps even still at sea. He very well knows it is abnormal for a young man like Courfeyrac, who lives on a small island such as Corfu and who has had no apparent classical education, to be able to speak ancient Greek, Latin, Akkadian, Ancient Egyptian and a bit of Celtish among other languages, but no modern Greek, no European languages, nor any tongues from North Africa or the Middle East. He knows it is strange that he would not come out of the water and he knows that it is even stranger that he seems to bear fins. Combeferre knows that there is only one explanation to all of this that would make sense and though he does try to find other possibilities, his mind always obsessively comes back to what he knows makes most sense, logically speaking—and that is that Courfeyrac is a mermaid (or merman?) and that he was the one to save him from the shipwreck.

As promised someone comes in the evening. This one does not attempt to hide their tail as they splash into the cave, heave themself onto the bank, revealing the exact point where the human body merges into a fish tail. Their scales are a shade of vermilion and their skin is dark and glistening with pearls of water glinting in the sun (which is bizarre to Combeferre, for the reports made by the English in 1809 spoke of grey skinned creatures with rather round features). This merperson here has long, blonde hair that falls in damp strands onto the sand around them as they struggle to keep something which they were holding dry—wood.

“ _Salve_ ,” (Hello) he dares say, and they turn around to look at him. Even without his glasses he can tell that the look on their face is not as friendly as had been the one of Courfeyrac's, bearing a certain sharpness similar to the one borne by Hellenistic canons.

“Greetings,” they answer in French, which makes Combeferre jump in surprise.

“You speak French?”

“Fluently.”

“But your friend Courfeyrac--”

“Does not,” replies the merperson, “He asked me to come in his stead, for he told me you had to rely on broken Latin to communicate and he was having a very difficult time understanding what you were saying. Thankfully for you, I do know a fair share of French and have therefore come to feed you.”

He speaks Middle French, _françois_ , from before the foundation of the Académie Française, and Combeferre has to concentrate to understand his strange twists of the tongue and the conjugation of the past tense he uses, but he is not about to complain, far too grateful to finally be able to let his brain relax. And besides, he still does not know why are these people keeping him in here.

“Thank you,” he simply says, “My name is Combeferre.”

“I know that. I am Enjolras, a son of the Tyrrhenian Sea,” it sounds almost menacing with the dusk coloured light behind him that taints his skin and hair in bright, warm, golden colours, “And I have brought wood for light and fish to sup on.”

He does not ask how did Enjolras find dry wood but simply nods, and slowly shifts closer, for he knows that it is to him to make a fire by the way the merman is extending his arm towards him with the wood in his hands. Enjolras also provides a flint stone, and then crawls to a point not too far away from Combeferre, where a small pile of dry straw has been stocked. He hands it to him and watches as Combeferre starts making the fire with clumsy hands. He has never done it this way before.

“I thought all humans knew how to make light?”

“Most do,” answers Combeferre.

“You don't?”

“I do usually, just not like this.”

“How do you feed yourself if you can't make a simple light?”

Combeferre wishes he could scowl at him but all he can do is refrain himself from snorting, which hurts his ribs. Enjolras does not seem to find the situation funny and simply watches with his arms crossed over his chest as slowly, smoke appears and a small fire is eventually started. He then guts the fish he has brought with him with a sort of sharp tool that could very well be an ancient blade, and they cook it over the fire, before eating quietly.

“Was it you who saved me from the water?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” he says. There is a pause then; “Why did you save me? Did you save everyone on board? And what happened to the ship?”

“The ship has sailed on to Athens. We were not able to save everyone and went only after those who were still alive when they fell at sea. We don't usually go on safety operations of the kind, but one of ours saved one of yours and since our clan is based on principles of equality and fraternity, we could not simply let others perish when one had been saved.”

At least the majority of the passengers are alive and well. He still feels sickness in his stomach as he thinks about the storm and those who were not as fortunate as him, but relief alleviates this nausea he is feeling and he lets out a deep sigh. He is not hungry any more and he places his plate down. Enjolras notices this and edges closer, offering an amicable squeeze to his knee. Enjolras' hand bears a constant wetness, though his skin does not feel slimy or sticky as Combeferre had almost expected, simply as though he had just dipped it into water before touching him.

“Would you like me to leave?” he asks him gently, and Combeferre shakes his head no and simply stares at his discarded plate of under-cooked fish, and when Enjolras makes a move to take it, he lets him and watches him eat. He sighs again.

“How come you can speak French?” he asks.

“I come from the Tyrrhenian Sea, as I've already said. Some merpeople speak it there, though they're usually more inclined to Latin, which is the common tongue to all merfolk in the Mediterranean Sea, ever since the conquest of the North African coast by the Romans—bloody bastards.”

“I see,” answers Combeferre.

“May I also ask a question?”

“Pray do.”

“I read your notebook-”

“You have my notebook?”

“Yes, and I read it.”

“Where is it?”

“Some place safe,” Enjolras dismisses, “Anyway, you say in it that humans know about the existence of merpeople. I need to know exactly what do they know and if they are actively hunting our cousins from the other seas.”

“Oh,” Combeferre remarks and looks at Enjolras, “Well, a great many people believe in mer _maids_ , they are very popular in our culture and are often perceived as great seductresses who lure sailors into the sea with their voices before eating their soul. Scientifically we have little to no evidence of your existence, and only hear about you through claims of sightings every now and then. Many scientists are slowly becoming more prone to believing that you never existed at all in the first place and were simply a myth among all the others.”

“What do you mean, _a myth among all the others_?”

“I mean--” Combeferre makes a move to clean his glasses but remembers he no longer has them and stupidly tucks his hands in his lap as he looks at Enjolras, “That people assume that you are only part of folktales and myths created by humans, such as centaurs, ogres, cyclopes, dragons, giants, et cetera.”

“Well that's very presumptuous of humans to believe they've created us,” Enjolras frowns and crosses his arms over his chest, “And I'm sure centaurs, ogres, cyclops, dragons, and giants would agree with me, had they not gone extinct because of predatory _human_ activity.”

“You mean they exist?”

“-ed. Past tense.”

“Ah, sorry.”

Enjolras hums and turns around to look outside, “It's getting dark out. I am glad to hear humans think this, even if clearly they behold very negative stereotypes against us and more specifically our women. We have needed to stay hidden to maintain our safety for centuries now and that is definitely one thing less to worry about.”

“Will you give me back my notebook?”

“Not yet, I'm not done with it.”

“And what of my clothes?”

“Oh, they're out on the beach.”

“Won't they get stolen?”

“There is not one human on this side of the island, it's safe. And besides, those strange, uh, feet protections you wore are still drying—one of ours wanted to inspect them more closely and soaked them all over again.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Are you cold?”

“A little bit.”

“I will fetch your coat for you.”

“And my trousers if possible too?”

“What are those?”

“The... clothing article for my legs.”

Enjolras nods in understanding and then slips back into the water, splashing Combeferre in the process—he does not apologise for it, disappearing completely under water, and Combeferre sees only a faint redness as the merman leaves the cave.

-

Knowing that he is not alone and that the merpeople are keeping other men someplace else on the island drives him mad. He cannot sleep for his ribs hurt too much (he is however confident that they are not broken, upon closer inspection and self-diagnosis— he has studied a fair share of medicine even if he is currently specialising as a marine zoologist) and he ends up lying down wrapped up in his coat which Enjolras brought back, trying to mentally pursue his journal in his head, formulating his sentences to close perfection and repeating the events of the past few days in fast motion. It is relaxing in a way and helps him set his mind onto something else than the fear and pain he is feeling, and it allows him to get a firm grasp of his situation.

He has been saved by merpeople who are bringing him food to eat and who have evidently taken care of his wounds, for his hands bare no more signs of blisters and torn skin, but merely rough callousness, and a cut on his leg has been treated with such efficiency it is now no more than a lumpy pale scar. He wonders many times if he should leave the cave and seek help from the natives (humans), if he should perhaps attempt to look for the other man, or _men_ who have been saved from the storm, but Corfu is big and unfamiliar, and the most likely scenario if he attempts to leave is that Combeferre will get lost and fall unconscious because of his poor eyesight, his concussion, his bruised ribs and dehydration, and would be discovered only days later by natives, when it is too late. He has however no reasons to attempt to leave the cave just yet, as the merpeople have shown nothing but hospitality thus far, even if their cryptic ways are slightly suspicious.

He sleeps fitfully and when comes the morning, he feels groggy and has a pain in his neck from resting in the cold sand. He ended up using his trousers which he rolled up as a pillow, but they alas provided little comfort. Around eight o'clock, a merperson swims in and offers a kind smile, saying their greetings in Latin. Combeferre does the same and begins to sit up, but is immediately stopped by the person, who warns them about potentially fractured ribs and Combeferre tells him that he is certain none are fractured.

“I healed them myself,” repeats the person, “But I did a sloppy job and there could still be some danger. How would you know if you're fine anyways?”

“I studied medicine.”

“I see. Well in that case, could you please help me get on the bank?”

Combeferre crawls up to where the merperson lies and extends his arms, which they seize with wet hands that immediately soak through his shirt, and Combeferre pulls, until they declare they should be fine and they roll on their side. Their tail, which is a yellowish, golden colour seems to be suffering from a malformation of some kind and Combeferre stares without really meaning to.

“What happened?” he asks when it is evident that the merperson has noticed his lack of discretion.

“Oh, it's fine,” they say, “It's always been that way—birth deformity. Anyway you may call me Joly. I'm a healer.”

“I would have never imagined merpeople to have a society developed enough for there to be jobs and employment.”

Joly frowns at him; “That's awfully pretentious of you, human. Our societal structure is millennia old, based on principles of democracy and equity which we have respected for far longer than you ever have! If anything we might be more civilised than you colonising folks.”

Combeferre remains quiet for a moment, uncertain as to what should be said, before he manages to utter a; “ _Mea culpa_ ; I did not know.”

“A man such as you should know not to make basic assumptions based on unfounded theories. I however accept your apology as clearly you still have much to learn—I am willing to answer any of your questions regarding us merfolks and our culture in order for you to grow out of your prejudiced stereotypes.”

“How did you heal my wounds so fast?”

Joly smiles and rolls onto his stomach before resting his chin on his knuckles; “All merpeople are born with some healing capacities—which is partly why humans used to hunt us for our hair, blood and tears and we had to go into hiding— _but_ _anyway_ , those healing capacities do require some studies and training to be developed and maximised to their full potential and so I have undergone a total of nine years of training before becoming my very own healer. So I healed you.”

“Do your hair, blood and tears really have healing abilities?”

“Of course not,” Joly scoffs, flipping some hair away from his face, “That's preposterous. It's a lot more complicated than that.”

Combeferre nods. He asks more questions, which Joly answers sometimes in an indignant tone but patiently nonetheless. The questions go from merpeople's societal organisation to anatomy, from politics to culture, science to history, and when Combeferre tells him about his glasses, Joly promises to try and find a solution. Eventually another figure barges in and seems to struggle to keep something above the water, but just as they make it to the bank, they drop whatever they were holding into the water. They swear colourfully. This merperson is completely bald, which startles Combeferre a tid bit for he had naturally come to the conclusion that all merfolks have long luscious hair—evidently not.

Joly tuts and rolls into the water to help his comrade fish back the object, and then comes out of the water holding figs and olives, now soaked in salt water.

“Behold breakfast!” says the bald merperson, and Joly rolls his eyes affectionately, placing the last of the food onto the plate it had originally been on.

“Combeferre, the Eagle, the Eagle, Combeferre,” he says, and the Eagle nods his head and shakes hands with Combeferre, before hoisting themselves up onto the bank and helping Joly, “He's my romantic partner and most devoted client.”

“ _Romantic_?”

Joly squints at Combeferre in suspicion; “Yes, why?”

The zoologist cannot help the question; “Are such, uh, _inclinations_ accepted in your culture?”

Joly gasps as though he has just asked his most preposterous question as of yet; “Why of _course_! Are they not in your land?”

“Not really, no.”

“By Neptune's great white beard,” he mutters, “Humans really are more absurd than I originally thought! But _why_ though?”

“It was condemned in a book written by a shepherd some eight thousand years ago and has been morally reprieved ever since then,” says Combeferre, and both merpeople look at him like he has grown a second head.

When the Eagle sees that Joly looks as though he is about to combust with rage, he says; “Well, in these waters it is widely accepted—always has been. I don't know how it may be with our cousins up in the northern sea, but the entire Mediterranean and Mesopotamian areas do not care about what one does in the intimacy of one's home.”

Combeferre nods his head in understanding and Joly plops a sea-water flavoured olive into his mouth to stop himself from making any more unsavoury comment about the human race. Although merpeople's diet is essentially fish-based, they are omnivorous creatures just as humans are and can enjoy the fruits and products of the land all while enjoying those of the sea—just as humans, again. They eat while making enjoyable conversation and avoid any talk of differences in between underwater and land lives as the social disparities created by humans despairs and angers them all greatly. Combeferre learns that the Eagle's name comes from a joke and his real name is Laigle. Joly also seems to call him Bossuet, which surprises Combeferre greatly for he wouldn't expect mermaids to know about human theologians.

Combeferre poses the question of when will he be able to leave or where are located the other survivors, and Joly and Laigle look at each other before deciding to carefully not answer that question. This only rouses further suspicions but Combeferre pretends not to be too disturbed by their ominous behaviour.

When they leave, Joly promises to try and find a solution for Combeferre's glasses, and Combeferre is once again left alone in this empty cave on his bank of cold sand. He can tell that is it hot outside from the sun rays filtering inside the cave and warming his skin when he manages to access one particular spot, and he yearns to jump in the water and swim out—it is however too dangerous for now. He touches his face and feels that a rough beard is comfortably growing in, and he thinks that before long it will look scraggly and unkempt, and then he will truly look like some Robinson Crusoe. His hair is dirty and filled with sand and he simply wishes he could bathe in something else than sea water.

During his time waiting he also manages to stand up again with some struggle, and his legs tremble under the weight of his body, still weak from the wreck and from days of disuse. He has to hold onto the walls of the cave to wander deeper in and see (or more likely feel, as he sees nothing) where does it lead. When it gets too dark, he retreats and goes back to the entrance where he is currently residing, and bends down towards the water to evaluate how deep it is. Again, it is extremely difficult when one is as blind as a bat, but he comes nevertheless to the conclusion when he squints hard enough that it must be some eight (French) feet deep.

At lunch time Courfeyrac comes back with calamari and seaweed and they feast on that. It is the first time Combeferre eats seaweed and he finds it difficult to enjoy at first, but eats nonetheless to not seem rude—his host, or prison guard (he has yet to decide) has had the kindness to bring him food after all. They make conversation with more ease than the day prior, mostly because Combeferre's brain feels less taut and has re-embraced the Latin grammar and vocabulary like in his school days or when reading certain medical books. Courfeyrac is a cheerful fellow who teases and pushes lightly and enjoys to see Combeferre flustered or confused at every delightful play on words he produces. He ends up eating most of the shared seaweed and asks about human life, but quickly grows somber when he learns similar information to what Combeferre has already given Joly and Bossuet. So he switches subjects and asks about other things, such as human legs and feet and toes, how do they work, can he wiggle his toes for him, do they ever grow impractical, doesn't it disgust him to have toenails, and Combeferre answers, often in a fit of laughter, which makes Courfeyrac grin widely, revealing pearly white teeth, however much sharper than those of humans. It startles Combeferre at first, but after reasoning he assumes it is because their diet is different and requires more cutting and less chewing.

Combeferre has always been fascinated by evolution and has been following the most modern theories regarding this subject, notably Lamarck's studies and observations which are of the most interesting nature. He however doesn't talk about this with Courfeyrac and keeps it to himself, but he does promise himself to draw more profound scientific comparison in between merpeople and humans. How did mermaids come to have a tail? Did all men come from the sea and those who decided to leave lost their tail for legs? Or had mermaids once been humans who decided to go into the sea? Combeferre had seen some anatomy sketches of mermaids, though of course they were mostly based on unfounded theories and beheld very little scientific content, revealing the top part of their bodies to be identical to that of humans, and the bottom part being no more than a giant salmon steak hidden under scales.

"I have talked with Enjolras," says Courfeyrac after a moment when their conversation has become slightly more serious, "We thought it better to make you stay with the other survivors, so you do not stay so long on your own. I told Enjolras it must get dull, and besides, why should we keep you as prisoner in this cave when you could easily leave?”

“I wasn't aware I was being kept as a prisoner,” responds Combeferre. Courfeyrac blinks.

“Well you're not our prisoner _per se_ , we aren't... there is nothing holding you back, you _can_ leave, only it'd be really best if you stayed. You understand, _don't you_?”

“I don't.”

“Just please don't leave, for your own good.”

Combeferre tells Courfeyrac that he couldn't leave even if he wanted to considering the state he's in, and Courfeyrac offers merely a feeble smile before disappearing under water.

-

The next morning Enjolras comes to fetch Combeferre, who remains merely in his trousers and shirt to avoid soaking all of his clothes again. Enjolras invites him to join him in the water and he slowly makes his way in. It is cold and deep and he has to swim to stay afloat. Enjolras seizes him and holds him close to his chest, which startles Combeferre, but he lets it happen and focuses on Enjolras' heartbeat against his back. It is considerably slower than that of humans, beating only once every six seconds. Enjolras seems to notice this for he says; “There is no reason to be afraid.”

“I am not,” replies Combeferre, “Though how will I breathe under water?”

“You won't need to,” says Enjolras, and before Combeferre can comment on that, he pulls them both under water, and Combeferre squeezes his eyes shut. He feels the gentle current against his face and clothes as they drift through the water and indeed he does not need to breathe—by some kind of magic (he hates that word) his body does not seem to crave air and so he lets Enjolras carry him to wherever he wishes to take him. He could be driving him to his death, Combeferre would not even know.

After a while they resurface and Combeferre cannot help but heave for air by some kind of reflex, and Enjolras looks at him with mild concern in his eyes.

“Are you all right?” he asks. They are floating in a sort of pond in the middle of another cave where the water is actually sweet rather than salty. Crystals and stalactites hang from the walls and ceiling and at first he thinks they must be a certain distance underground, perhaps even in a water table—the hole in the ceiling letting daylight filter in however tells him that he must be on ground level zero.

Before he can answer a familiar voice calls; “Combeferre?” and he whips his head around. There sits a familiar, half undressed figure with dark hair, and they say; “It's me, Pontmercy!”

So the fool had survived.

“Ah, you know each other?” asks Enjolras, swimming towards the bank which thankfully doesn't require any perilous climbing like in the cave Combeferre had been in previously. It is simply a sand bank, soft and comfortable, with no jagged rock hidden right under it. From up close Combeferre sees that Pontmercy is in a very similar state to his own, hair disheveled and thick with sea salt, a patchy beard and moustache settling on his jaw and upper lip, his clothes torn in places and considerably less clean than on the day of the storm.

“Yes,” says Pontmercy, smiling, “Oh how wonderful news! I was expecting a sailor and was already dreading having to make conversation with him!”

“That is a rather terrible thing to say, Pontmercy,” says Combeferre, “Those sailors merit life much more than any of us, they were doing all the real work on the boat and doing everything in their might to bring you safely to your destination.”

“And they failed,” replies Pontmercy. Combeferre decides to simply give up as he does not want to argue with someone as ungrateful as this man. He looks at Enjolras who seems to be holding back comments of his own. The merman then simply drifts farther away.

“I have to go and fetch the last human,” he says, before disappearing into the water, undoubtedly towards the underwater entrance—Combeferre understands then how this is a true prison and there is no way of leaving without a merfolk's help, and how he is now trapped here with Pontmercy with no hopes of escaping.

“I thought you had died,” says Combeferre, turning his back to Marius and observing the cave. There are blankets and random human objects stacked in places, principally shards of broken glass, mirrors and jewelry loaded chests. Marius's belongings are neatly folded by the blankets and Combeferre thinks about his own rumpled pile of smeggy clothes he left back in the other cave—they might as well burn them at this stage.

“I thought so too,” sighs Pontmercy from behind him, “For when I leaned over the rail to vomit and fell into the sea head first, it felt as though my skull had burst. I was drifting under water, incapable of moving, paralysed from the blow I had just suffered, when I heard a very gentle, melodic yet mystical voice singing. I felt naturally attracted to it. When it got closer, I saw the most beautiful creature God could have ever created, practically glowing in the deep blue sea. She took my hand and pulled me to her breast, and before long I fell unconscious. When I woke up here, she was staring at me with the most enthralling eyes. I have not seen her since then and yet my mind cannot stop thinking about her; she is there in my every thought, in my every dreams, plaguing my mind at every moment,” Pontmercy pauses for a moment to let out a deep sigh and Combeferre is still not looking at him; “Ah, my friend! Had you seen what I have seen you would surely understand! Never was there a more beautiful woman ever brought upon this earth! Was she to tear my heart right out of my chest and eat it while it is still beating and warm in her lovely hands, I would let her! I would let her in an instant! That is how beautiful she was!”

Combeferre sits in the sand and hopes that the surviving sailor that has yet to arrive will be more entertaining than Pontmercy. Before long Joly arrives with tightly wrapped bundles containing soap and clean shirts. When Combeferre asks how did he acquire them, he explains they are in contact with the humans on the island and regularly make exchanges with them. Upon closer inspection they are indeed traditional tunics rather than shirts, reaching mid thigh the way a nightshirt would. Joly then crawls onto land and gives something to Combeferre: his glasses, snapped into two and fixed clumsily with some sort of glue.

“I found them about where Enjolras told me he found you,” he explains and Combeferre nods his head and thanks him profusely. The correctional lenses are scratched and the spectacles now sit awkwardly, crookedly on his nose, but at least he can see something. Joly's features neaten and he sees the things he had not seen before: the mole on the tip of his nose, the colour of his eyes, the gills on the side of his neck. It feels amazing, and the headache that had become to settle in these last few days because of his poor eyesight abates immediately.

When Enjolras comes back he sees the true beauty of the young merman, holding himself with the confidence of a leader. He pauses when he sees Combeferre with the glasses and then smiles. Combeferre takes a minute to see who is the man with him, spluttering because of water in his mouth and nose and rubbing his eyes, and when he does he lets out a gasp of surprise and delight.

“Prouvaire!”

The man in question spits out some water and pushes his hair out of his face and looks in the direction of whoever called his name, and smiles when he sees his friend.

“You're alive!” he cries, detaching himself from Enjolras's hold and swimming towards the bank, “Oh dear I saw you slip and fall and felt such grief! Such sorrow! My God Combeferre, dearest friend! Oh, how delighted I am! And thank you, Enjolras, for taking the trouble of bringing me here!”

Prouvaire is wearing merely his trousers and waistcoat which he has left open, and he comes to embrace Combeferre, soaking wet. They kiss cheeks, rough beards scraping against rough beard, and they move back, holding their jaws where they inadvertently scratched each other.

“I assume you know each other well,” says Enjolras from behind them, leaning half on land, half in the water, and then only does Combeferre see how _big_ merpeople are. Enjolras is easily six feet long. Joly next to him is perhaps five feet eight inches—Combeferre in comparison is a mere five foot three inches tall.

“We met on board,” explains Combeferre, letting go of Prouvaire.

“It is rather ironic actually that you folks saved me,” says the poet, turning towards the mermen, “For on board I must have spoken my good friend's ears off about mermaids. I have always held a certain fascination for you, for the mysticism you are shrouded in, the myths and tales we sing about. How wonderful, how beautiful a revelation that you do truly exist and have saved us from the sea!”

Enjolras offers a stiff smile and says nothing, and Joly next to him looks as though he is restraining himself from saying something sarcastic, a vein swelling on the side of his forehead. Prouvaire does not notice this and turns around to face Pontmercy, who has fallen silent and paled considerably at the sight of the third man to have fallen overboard during the storm. Prouvaire tries to make conversation but Pontmercy says little to nothing.

“Well, we will be going now,” says Enjolras, pushing himself backwards into the water and helping Joly do the same.

“Can we possibly get a blade?” asks Combeferre, “To shave.”

Enjolras frowns and replies with a simple yet firm, “No,” before merging his entire body in the water and leave through the underwater entrance.

“Beards are quite Romantic anyways,” speaks Jehan.

Combeferre lets his shoulders sag as he watches the mermen swim away; “They think we might try to attack them with a blade if they give us one,” he says.

“Why would we do that?” asks Pontmercy.

“Oh, I don't know,” replies Combeferre sarcastically, “Maybe because they're literally keeping us imprisoned for obscure reasons and won't let us communicate with other humans?”

“Oh, I hadn't thought about it from that perspective.”

 _You don't think full stop_ , thinks Combeferre, but doesn't say. The look he shares with Prouvaire is sufficient for him to understand he's having similar thoughts.

They end up making fire with wood that has been piled and drying for days to keep warm and Prouvaire explains how he came to wake up in a deserted creak after the storm. He had fallen at sea some thirty minutes after Combeferre when a second wave came unfurling on the deck and he was swept right off the ship, landing like a rag doll into the water. An apparently very strong merman had seen him and swam up to him while Prouvaire stared at him, thinking that this was it, he was going to die eaten by a merman, but he instead took him in his arms and led him to the island. He had eventually blacked out from the exhaustion, head wound he suffered from and the unbearable whistling in his ears. When he woke up, the same merman was there and they talked in Ancient Greek, as Prouvaire is fluent in it, as well as in Hebrew and Ancient Egyptian, which are all tongues this merman spoke too. They seem to have bonded ever since then and the merman, named Bahorel, promised he would come to visit Prouvaire here.

“I hope Cosette comes back too,” sighs Marius, pressing his face in his hands as he stares at the flames.

Combeferre and Prouvaire ignore him for obvious reasons.

-

How wonderful, how beautiful a thing to be once more reunited with a cherished friend after days of loneliness and despair! Solitude had become to have a toll on Jehan ever since he was left abandoned in that creak, and even if a kind merperson would come to visit him twice a day, one easily gets bored with nothing to do but contemplate the passing of time and the cadence of the drifting waves, their to and fro, rippling around his bare feet. He had contemplated at one point swimming back to the mainland, but realised he knew not where had he landed—the pale, dry rocks and buzzing of insects and roughened, sun-bleached plants could belong to any place on the Mediterranean coast.

He was uncertain in his first days whether his whole ordeal with a merman was a dream, as he had indeed suffered a rather violent blow to the head when falling overboard. He remembered the fear and simultaneous relief he felt as this figure, tall and muscular, made their way towards him with great ease, and Jehan had watched as they approached him with hooded eyes, feeling the sting of an open wound on his forehead, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat increase, and despite feeling fear in his very core, he could only remain serene and calm in the presence of this fantastical creature. He had fainted soon after they reached him unfortunately.

Nevertheless the head wound was healed when he woke up and left him with nothing more than a little cut and a pigeon egg sized lump on his forehead, and he was left completely naked, lying in the warm, later afternoon sunlight, in the soft sand, his clothes drying next to him, his body kissed by the mellow sound of cicadas, the crashing waves, the hot, zephyric wind. It felt delightful, and never before had he been given the opportunity to lay in such way, alone, far away from other men, to the beauty and liberty that nature had to offer to him in its entirety.

When the merman who had saved him from the storm came back, Jehan was not as surprised and fearful as the first time, and simply observed him as he swam towards the beach, letting the waves carry him and slip onto the sand, not too far from Jehan's outstretched legs.

“Hello,” he had said in Ancient Greek, and this delighted Jehan, who had always dreamed of having a proper conversation in this tongue, “I have come to see how you are faring.”

“I am faring quite well, thank you,” replied Jehan, smiling, “I thank you for saving me from that monstrous storm—I doubt I would be among mortals anymore were it not for you.”

The merman smiled most impressively, revealing a set of perfectly aligned, white teeth, the canines particularly sharp, almost like those of a shark—Jehan had seen one once before in the _Muséum national d'Histoire naturelle_ in Paris. His skin was dark and his tail a bright, vivid shade of red that glistened like ten thousand encrusted rubies in the sun; his hair was long and fell damply down his shoulders and back and onto the sand, and it appeared he was growing a beard and moustache, however nearly not as long as his hair. All in all, he was a rather dashing young man in Jehan's tasteful opinion.

They had spoken for hours until the sun had set and the mosquitoes came out, and Jehan was quick to slip his clothes back on—bizarrely he had felt no discomfort at all at being thus exposed, stark naked to this merman, and neither did he, perhaps because nudity was something that had only ever bothered humans in all their prudishness—Jehan has contemplated many times before the necessity of clothes and has come to the natural conclusion that were it not for the penal code, he would have happily adorned nothing but his birth suit when wandering through the streets of Paris.

Bahorel had come back multiple times in the following days to offer him sweet water and a thousand different delights to feast upon—usually most traditional Greek and eastern goods, from olives to fish to even—the height of luxury!—yogurt. Talking to Bahorel was easy and they discussed many things, from the most trivial experiences of life in society to the most intense emotions brought to their paroxysm when one is confronted to the grand inexorability of nature and existence in general, when one is left to think so deeply that they lose the very notions of time and spend perhaps a whole night in the lovely southern wheat fields of France, coming home only in the morning to the great fright of everyone in the house, who had thought one to have been attacked by brigands or an animal, or better still—believed one forever gone, vanished, free from one's mortal, corporal prison. Bahorel listened avidly to what he had to say and was perhaps the first one to ever do so; his mother had always listened to his poetry and musings but Jehan knew well that she did not understand anything he wrote and found it too obscure to her liking—she preferred pastoral romance and would have liked it if her only son would actually study rather than lose himself in debauchery and hashish induced dreams in the dens and brothels of Pigalle.

Other mermen had come—no women—and entertained Jehan in some way. One even managed to find him a book that had once fallen in the sea, but had since then been dried and was readable once more, though the paper was left fragile and wavy, and every page-turning proved itself to be a perilous endeavour. All in all he was happy despite his loneliness, and not once did it come to his mind to attempt and make contact with the local human folks living on the island, for there were no reasons to fear or mistrust the merpeople who had been nothing but warm and welcoming to him.

No matter how pleased he is to be back by Combeferre's side, he does miss the sun and warmth of it on his skin—it had not been as hot as the Summer's heavy, suffocating southern heat, but rather the feeling of having a lovely blanket put over one's body. He is also reluctant to be trapped inside this cave with the bonapartist who seems to find no better activity than pine endlessly over a mermaid, and he and Combeferre thus ignore him. Combeferre is very clearly skeptical of the merpeople and spends the greater part of the day looking up at the giant gaping hole over their heads—they are very clearly trapped in some sort of wide crevice—or wandering at the bottom of the cave, as though he will find another exit than through the roof or the water but always coming back disappointed.

“How long did it take you to arrive here?” he asks him, after observing the surface of the water for the best of twenty minutes.

“We stayed under water about ten minutes,” he answers, and Combeferre presses his fist against his forehead before turning to Pontmercy.

“And you?”

“What?”

“How long did it take you to come all the way here? How much time did you spend under water?”

“I don't know,” replies Pontmercy. Combeferre looks irritated but adds nothing and simply turns back towards the water. He has rolled his trousers up and his feet are dipped in the cool water, and he is wearing the traditional tunic that is rather colourful and even suits him, thinks Prouvaire.

“Assuming the merpeople swim approximately five times faster than a human being and a human swims at an average speed of two miles per hour, and assuming that there is a resurfacing spot approximately two minutes (merfolk speed) outside this cave, it would take us at the very least fifty minutes to reach back our original spots—so maybe about half that time to escape onto a coastal area?”

“Why are you even doing these calculi,” asks Pontmercy, “Knowing that we cannot survive ten minutes without breathing under water anyway?”

“I don't _know_ ,” says Combeferre, standing up and pacing, “I just need to _think_.”

“Maybe we should wait to see what the merfolk want with us before jumping to conclusions,” says Jehan. Combeferre's eyes are bright and wide behind his crooked spectacles.

“I think it is safe to jump to conclusions considering they've locked us up in a crevice with no means of escape and refuse to even give us anything to shave with, or any potential information as to what they are planning on doing with us.”

“Maybe they aren't planning on doing anything.”

“Then why would they keep us here?”

Jehan has no answer to that, and he sighs, sitting down in the sand and facing the entrance of the cave, waiting for the merpeople to come back. Bahorel has yet to make a reappearance and Jehan hopes he will not take too long. He also hopes that the merman is not planning on making a stew or a _grillade_ out of him—he however thinks he would still let him eat his heart if he wanted to, for that is considerably more romantic, though he has come to realise in the past few days that he is terribly afraid of pain and hopes that such an endeavour would not be too atrocious.

The merpeople do not come on that evening, nor do they come the next morning. At noon comes a mermaid who is not Pontmercy's sweetheart, but a lady named Éponine (surely after the goddess Epona?) who delivers them fish and wood, and whose tail is a deep, royal shade of blue that glimmers like sapphires in the sunlight that filters through the hole in the roof.

“Can you tell us anything at all on what is the matter?” asks Pontmercy as he falls to his knees before her, a fish in one hand and a log in the other. This one speaks Middle French, much like Enjolras.

“No,” she says, “Now stop talking before I bite you.”

Pontmercy cowers back in fear and Éponine smiles in satisfaction.

“What about Cosette? Do you know her? Do you know if she will come here?” he asks again.

“Oh, I know her well indeed,” she grins, “We are lovers.”

Pontmercy's face visibly pales at the news, and soon enough he looks as though he is about to faint. Éponine smiles and leaves, splashing water onto him playfully, which pulls him out of his momentary stupour. Jehan has to restrain himself from laughing and imagines what a sight two sapphic mermaids must be. He then moves to pat Pontmercy on the shoulder to show his sympathy.

“It is normal in their society,” he says, and Pontmercy looks devastated.

“How will I ever have a chance with her now?” he whispers.

“I think your chances were blown from the start, given the fish tail and scales and all, dear fellow,” intervenes Combeferre, and Jehan laughs.

“Oh, to be a mere human, doomed to fall for the charms of a most resplendent yet unattainable sea creature!”

Pontmercy starts to cry, and they move onto another subject.

-

It takes another two days before the merfolk come back. By this time, they are all going mad, Jehan because of Combeferre's ceaseless pacing and Combeferre because of Pontmercy's ceaseless pining. They at least have access to soap and food, but it has become evident now that Combeferre was right and the merpeople are plotting something that could possibly put them in harm's way. He tries to tell himself he is ready to die, but the truth is that he is not, and he hopes they will be merciful when the time comes and offer him a quick, clean death before they decide to eat his organs.

When they come in, the three humans immediately walk towards the water and watch as the whole clan gathers in the pond, Enjolras as their lead. Bahorel is there as well, toned arms crossed over his chest as he eyes Jehan with such intensity it is almost overwhelming. There are also merfolk Jehan has never met, including two women, one who is very clearly Pontmercy's Cosette and the other who stays by Joly and Bossuet's side, and a man who looks as though his last wish is to be here.

Enjolras is the first one to speak, “Our council has discussed and deliberated on what we shall do with you humans,” he says in a very firm, imperative tone that dictates respect and authority, “As our law on secrecy and protection of our species has been violated by your discovery of our clan, and as you form a clear threat against the merling specie in general, it has been decided that you shall be met with death in order to assure that our secret is not revealed to the human world and our security is maintained.”

Pontmercy faints and Jehan pales, feeling rather betrayed by these people despite having come to expect this, and he finds himself incapable of speaking a word to contest this decision. Combeferre, who perhaps was the most prepared for this all along seems impassive and he stares at Enjolras coolly, arms crossed over his chest.

“Then what was the point of saving us from the sea in the first place?” he asks.

Enjolras glares; “It was a foolish mistake that did nothing but endanger us.”

“Surely you would know better after having spoken to us for over a week to see that we would not do anything to endanger your people.”

“You are human, it is within humans' nature to do harm.”

Combeferre cocks an eyebrow; “I cannot deny that humans have repeatedly proven throughout history that they do have a proneness to destruction, might it be of themselves or those surrounding them—however I can assure you that neither Prouvaire nor me shall reveal your existence to the world (I cannot speak on Pontmercy's behalf as it appears he has succumbed to an excess of emotions). It is not in our interest to endanger your species, or any species whatsoever; in fact I would go as far as to say that we would both rather be defending and protecting you from human activity more than anything else.”

“You say this,” replies Enjolras, and his voice echoes in the cave almost eerily, no one else dares speak as he captures all of the attention, “And yet you are a marine zoologist, you have said it yourself and your journal testifies of it too. Your sole purpose is to study marine life, and you were on your way to Egypt to do just that. It is in your full interest to analyse us and reveal our existence to the world for us to be captured, killed and then studied, before being put in your musea we have heard so much about.”

“I have no interest in glory,” replies Combeferre. Jehan watches the exchange not unlike the way one would watch a palm game, turning your head right and left at every new exchange; “I study marine zoology out of interest and not out of fame. I study it not to reveal my most extraordinary discovery, but rather as a way to understand sea life in order to later protect it and ethically live with it.”

Another voice scoffs, it is Éponine's, “I very much doubt that,” she says, “You European men have developed a social structure where your only goal is social escalation, fame and money. You are ready to exploit by any means anything that will make you rich. I've heard it and I've seen it. The northern seas are slowly becoming more and more polluted by your filth.”

“I am literally part of a republican revolutionary movement who is contesting this,” Combeferre says, and the desperation in his voice is slowly becoming clear, “And Prouvaire sympathises with our cause, we discussed this many times while aboard L'Intrépide; Enjolras knows this for it is written in my journal.”

Jehan nods his head when Combeferre gazes at him. His voice is still tied into a knot that makes even breathing difficult, and he feels his face burn with fear and embarrassment at having everyone momentarily look at him.

A merman Jehan has met once before and who goes by as Feuilly grabs Enjolras' arm and seems to be communicating with him silently, through the eyes; Jehan cannot imagine how close they must be to do this and watches as Feuilly's eyes widen every now and then while Enjolras mostly raises his eyebrows in incredulity. Everyone watches in silence.

Eventually Enjolras turns towards the rest of the clan and says; “Everyone, underwater meeting, we must debate.” and just like that, they all vanish under water.

Jehan turns towards Combeferre; “Pray let Feuilly convince them to let us go,” he says and Combeferre nods his head, before falling on his bottom in the sand, dully. The light tremour in his hand testifies of his own fear and Jehan watches as the other man removes his glasses and wipes them very slowly, very carefully on the tunic he is wearing.

When the clan rises back up to the surface, it is Feuilly who speaks; “I hereby speak in the name of our clan, the Friends of the Abased, when I say that after more extended debates, we have decided to keep you alive. You will be free to roam the island to your leisure and we will talk with the locals tonight to see if they may lodge you—do not attempt to escape just yet for we have more discussing to do, and the humans will warn us of any suspicious behaviour.”

“Wake your friend,” says Enjolras, who clearly is slightly malcontent from the tone of his voice, “We shall leave immediately.”

Jehan walks towards Pontmercy and slaps his cheeks gently. Pontmercy comes back to life soon thereafter, blinking quickly and gazing at Jehan curiously before seemingly remembering where he is.

“Are we going to die?” he whispers.

“You are to be sacrificed to the almighty Poseidon at midnight,” says Bahorel. Clearly it is supposed to be a jest, but Pontmercy does not seem to understand this, for immediately he shows signs of falling back into unconsciousness. Combeferre takes water from the pond in the cup of his hand and pours it on the man's face, forcing him to wake. Behind them, some merfolk are snickering among themselves at Pontmercy's gullibility.

“No harm is to be done to any of you,” says Cosette in a kind voice, and this makes Pontmercy sit up, brushing strands of wet hair away from his face. Jehan sees the moment when his eyes change, when he realises who has spoken and what have they said, he sees the glint, this sudden passion lighting in his irises, and he understands that the young man is sincerely in love with a mermaid he has met only on one or two occasions. He envies him almost for this ease, this readiness to fall in love at first sight—it is something he almost wishes he could obtain one day for himself, for certainly there is nothing more romantic than that; the very act of seeing someone for the first time, of looking them in the eye and declaring ' _I am in love with you!_ '.

-

Their living conditions do considerably improve from then onward, even if Jehan must share a room with his two fellow human inmates and has to share the bigger of two beds with Combeferre, who is a truly abominable bed partner—the man has an dreadful habit of snoring rather loudly, stealing all the blankets and taking over most of the bed in his sleep; a real tyrant. Jehan almost has a mind to join Pontmercy in his own small cot, but the desperation has as of yet not proven itself too extreme for such radical measures to be taken. He often thinks he could always simply go and sleep out on the beach as the temperatures are currently rising considerably.

The people in the village were at first rather wary of these newcomers and had not been particularly welcoming—it has however changed ever since the merfolk have spoken to them. An old lady drops by daily doses of bread and sheep milk with succulent figs, olives or whatever the locals can afford to donate—Jehan suspects the merpeople to be paying for this sudden benevolence from these humans, no doubt with all the amassed gold they've gathered from shipwrecks.

They have not yet discussed terms of agreement with the Friends of the Abased as to when will they be able to leave, and so far Jehan does not specifically mind the delay in decision taking—the island is quite pleasant enough and there is still much to be discovered. He and Combeferre regularly head out on long walks and take in the beauty of this tortured, roughened nature as well as the vestiges of a once powerful civilisation, now crumbling and forgotten by the west who beholds only preconceived, idealised conceptions of what it once was. He wonders often if one day people will contemplate the remains of what men of his time have built and worshiped with the same emotion and nostalgia he feels when facing a Greek temple or a Gothic church, if people will look at what the nineteenth century has brought in terms of inventions and ideas with a certain belief, regarding its inhabitants as naive, simple people, doomed to a foreseen downfall. Will people in the year 3000 gaze at the remains of a Paris with great fondness and debate over the functionality of the Panthéon or Notre-Dame? Will there be any remaining written traces of these times they're living in; will French become another dead language among all the others? It wounds his heart to reflect upon the ineluctable loss of memories to the passing of time, the fatality of their finite existence they edge a little bit closer to with every new day.

Here at least the passing of time is such an abstract concept Jehan feels almost immortal.

“I am turning twenty-two in July,” he says one afternoon as he treks through the woods with Combeferre, away from anyone, human or other, “How terrible a thing!”

“Do you sincerely believe twenty-two to be an advanced age?”

“Twenty-two is only three years away from twenty-five,” he answers, “And twenty-five is half-way in between twenty and thirty. _And_ it is a quarter of a century. _And_ I will be half-way from fifty. So to answer your question, dear Combeferre: yes, twenty-two is an awful lot!”

Combeferre contemplates him calmly, though Jehan knows better than to assume that anything is calm in his friend's head.

“You cannot spend your whole life worrying about something as abstract as time and age,” says Combeferre, “Time is a tangible force, and although it is undeniably useful in an industrialising world as ours, it bears so many flaws and glitches and such great incoherence that make it impossible to contemplate it in all seriousness—think: the pyramids of Gizeh were built when mammoths were still roaming our regions. Incas have been performing successful brain surgeries with a survival rate of 90% before the Gauls had even developed writing—the west can't even do that _today._ My grandma was born when Louis XIV was still in reign. In fact it is most likely we will be the messengers of one time to another ourselves—we are the children of the Republic, born under the Empire, living through the monarchy; our grandchildren will see the twentieth century in all its grandeur and glory and will know it is the life work of their grandfathers. Can you imagine _that_?”

“Dear God Combeferre, I do certainly hope I won't live long enough to become a grandfather,” Jehan says, grimacing; “But I understand what you mean regardless of this; time is a funny thing that stretches and shortens at will, it is an absurdity—only it conditions our lives and we must live by it. Until I have not reached immortality I must subject myself to it as dreadful a thing it is.”

“Are you truly seeking immortality?”

“Not literally. I seek it more in a Aristotelian sense of the word, though instead of achieving it through sophia, it is sought through arts and poetry. You see, I have this belief that one is immortal and closer to the gods when in the process of creating—one is thus struck by such divine inspiration that anything else momentarily ceases to exist in that instant, one does not connect with God, one becomes God, creator of the sublime, of beauty and genius. And _there_ lies true happiness—I was however never much of a philosopher, as you can tell, and I beg for you not to throttle me here for my rather sacrilegious words, as I understand you are quite the Platonic.”

“I do quite forgive you, dear friend. May I ask if you rely on recreational drug use when in the midst of creative process?”

“Why yes, of course. There is no inspiration without stimuli.”

They finish they walk soon thereafter and head back towards the small village. Combeferre is called over by Enjolras and Courfeyrac who seem to have naturally elected him as diplomat and representative of their small human trio they form with Pontmercy. Jehan makes his way towards the small bay located not too far away from the human habitations and lounges in the warm, white sand. There is no wind and the air is dry, almost coarse against his already sun-kissed skin. His nose has burnt and the skin on its bridge peals lightly. If he closes his eyes long enough, he can almost imagine he is back in Camargue.

Salt water suddenly splashes in his face and he gasps in surprise, sitting up immediately to see who is the culprit of such dreadful farce. His eyes soon land on Bahorel whose top part is leaning in the warm sand and tail laying in the water, its bright red colour clashing radically with the pale turquoise of the water.

“Hello,” he says, smiling, and Jehan cannot be angry at the sight of that face; “Did I rouse you?”

“If only,” sighs Jehan in answer, “Alas I was merely contemplating the beauty of nature and the delicious feeling of the sun on my skin; how it reminded me of long, lonely strolls by the sea in my youth.”

“You're going to catch a fever if you stay so long in the sun with no protection,” says Bahorel and Jehan dismisses his words.

“Have you come only to fret over my well being, Mother, or do you desire to speak of other matters?”

“I have many desires,” answers Bahorel rather casually, “However I have come here because it has been days since we have last spoken and also because I wish to clarify things that have been waiting for already too long and which I fear will only grow into a permanent, unattainable barrier in between us if it is not addressed sooner than later.”

“Well, then speak.”

“I wish for you to know, now that all danger is passed, that if push had come to shove and we would have... _disposed_ of you,” he has the magnanimity to use the indefinite, general ' _we_ ' thinks Jehan, thus rejecting all blame, “It would have been necessary, even if done with great reluctance. I have come to deeply appreciate the bond that has shaped in between us—never have I met a human with so many interesting thoughts and such an exalted perception of the world, and I enjoy spending time by your side, Jehan.”

“But had push come to shove,” repeats Jehan, “You would still have disposed of us.”

“It was a question of survival,” he replies, and a frown settles in between his thick eyebrows, “You must understand this. We have been preserving our security from human activity for millennia by efficiently hiding our existence from them. Imagine if tomorrow Pontmercy or Combeferre, or even you, decided to reveal our existence for whatever reason—financial, scientific, artistic, whatever. It would be the merling kind's doom. We would be hunted for sport and you _know_ this.”

“I do, however I wish you knew that I would have never compromised your security.”

“It is easier said than done. Anyway I want you to know that I was one of the merfolk in favour of your death if it meant saving our kind. I'm telling you this because I believe it is important to be transparent with you and I do not wish to hide behind dishonesty and cowardice.”

“I do not wish to know this,” answers Jehan, “I have no interest in knowing who was in favour and who was not. It is pointless, our lives are spared now and we are here, profiting from a semblance of freedom—and perhaps for now this is sufficient, for what is freedom anyway, if not a forever unattainable goal which man may seek by all means in nature? But I am drifting—I don't want you to make me feel resentful towards you, no matter how much I appreciate your honesty. I refuse to feel resent even if I dearly wish it was possible for your kind to trust, if not the whole of mankind, then at least Combeferre and I.”

“I notice you have decided to omit Pontmercy from your trustworthy trio.”

“I do not know the man well,” answers Jehan, “But he is what we call a bonapartist here and, _well_. I am convinced one's political ideology reflects one's soul.”

“He is a _bonapartist_?” hisses Bahorel and Jehan looks curiously at him.

“Do you know that word?”

“Who the hell doesn't know who Buonaparté is?” spits Bahorel, and the poet feels a gleeful smile spread on his own face as he observes the merman before him, all previous concerns momentarily put aside, “He is known across the entire Mediterranean and perhaps even farther up north, that imperialist scumbag! By Poseidon's tail, we should have sacrificed him to the sea divinities just for his beliefs! You know the whole underwater world celebrated for ten days and ten nights when it was told that he was defeated in Waterloo?”

“How do you know Waterloo?”

“Words circulate quickly underwater, and besides, our comrades living around Saint-Helen told us all about it.”

Jehan hums in understanding, “And why do the merfolk loathe Buonaparté?”

“He is a racist, tyrannical imperialist and a cultural heritage thief, why wouldn't we be loathe of him?”

“You make a fine point.”

“But that is beyond the _point_ ,” says Bahorel, returning to the original subject of the conversation, “If we decide in the next meeting that Pontmercy is untrustworthy, then he shall be executed. In the meantime we shall keep an eye on him—I've noticed his fondness for Cosette, maybe he will not speak if she and Éponine manage to coax him into silence.”

-

The days are spent lazily, pleasantly, and it becomes easy to fall in love with Corfu.

Jehan cannot help wonder what will happen once they are set free and allowed to go back home, wonders if all this is an ephemeral bliss which shall be shattered the moment Enjolras decides that they must leave and reach the mainland. He has grown attached to some members of the Friends of the Abased, notably Bahorel of course, and rapidly he has figured that departing would leave too deep a wound in his heart. Life is a cruel thing, and all things are ephemeral, even this small slip of heaven he has been granted.

Bahorel seems to notice his melancholy for he stares most intensely with those sharp eyes of his, and Jehan feels momentarily mesmerised.

“I think,” he manages to say, “That I would have liked to be a merman myself, in another life.”

“And I a human,” answers Bahorel.

“You wouldn't,” Jehan shakes his head.

“I wish it was possible to see what is on land—the sea beholds many beauties and wonders and I enjoy most ardently to venture in its depths, when the light begins to fade and the colours lose their warmth, but I also long to see the cities from whence men come from, I long to taste the savoury dishes your cultures have to offer, I long to see things I have not yet seen and that I alas never will see.”

“We are doomed thus way—it is the cruelty of nature.”

Bahorel places a hand on his foot—it is the first time he does such thing, and Jehan watches it there, big, wide, damp. When he looks back in the merman's eyes, the intensity that was there moments ago remains and has perhaps even increased, if this was possible.

“Doomed is the right word, perhaps,” he answers.

-

Jehan regularly comes back to the beach and waits there for Bahorel, who usually comes alone. It soon becomes their personal little ritual which both indulge in most readily and Jehan wishes for it to never end. Combeferre often asks him where does he escape to and when he tells him, the bespectacled man tends to simply cock his eyebrows and look incredulous, as though silently asking “Again?”. Jehan decides to ignore him.

On some days Bahorel speaks of the underwater world and its various structures which make it all seem like utopia in comparison to the human world, but Bahorel assures him that this is not the case. They speak for hours on end as there is nothing else to do—Bahorel does have classes to attend, but he assures Jehan that he really does not have to go and that he is only really studying to please mum and dad. Jehan finds that very amusing. He learns things he did not yet know about him: his age, his background, his life, his friends, and he learns that Bahorel has other companions outside of the Friends of the Abased, even if he does not see them as regularly as he sees Feuilly, Grantaire, Courfeyrac and Enjolras. He enjoys the company of the other Friends as well, however they too have their own circles—Cosette and Éponine are the prime example, as they seem to be keeping mostly to themselves, or gathering (according to Bahorel) with other mermaids.

It is easy to speak to Bahorel and one feels comfortable around him—there is no fear of slipping and going too far, there is no fear of having to keep up appearances (for all appearances are crushed and futile around him). He is just as eccentric as Jehan in many ways and he eagerly listens to Romantic theory, with which he agrees on some points but disagrees on others—mostly the more political, liberal aspects. There is an immense feeling of well being that surges through his body and soul whenever he sees him, half lying in the water with his gigantic, crimson red tail. Bahorel must be close to some six feet five inches; in other words he is a colossus, a Goliath, and had he wanted to pull Jehan to the bottom of the ocean and feast on his heart, he could have done it with little to no struggle (Jehan quite rather resembles a shrimp next to him).

In the late days of April when the storms have passed and the waters calmed, Bahorel comes into the creak in loud splashes that disturb the quiet ripple of the waves and frighten the flock of seagulls that has come to eat what little shellfish has drifted from the turquoise sea.

“I would like to take you somewhere,” he says, and Jehan simply removes his shoes before stepping into the cool water.

“Where to?” he asks as though he wouldn't have followed him to the crevices of Hell.

“You'll see,” answers the merman, and Jehan follows him into the deeper parts of the water before letting him grab him by the waist (how intimate, how delectable a gesture!) and dive under water. It does not feel as viscerally chilling as when he fell overboard, it is lukewarm, rather the same temperature as at the public baths he would sometimes attend with fellow poets. The visibility on that day is also quite good and they cross a few marvelous fish with resplendent colours that would have made Combeferre weep were he there to see them.

Bahorel swims for perhaps the best of thirty minutes and Jehan becomes almost embarrassed to be held for so long before they reach an island so small it could have simply been the tip of an underwater volcano emerging from the depths of the sea. They sit on the pebble beach and Bahorel has to catch his breath just for a minute despite him trying not to show it.

“So why did you take me here?” he asks once he's certain Bahorel has finished pretending he definitely is not catching his breath.

“Because this beach has amazing rocks,” says Bahorel, grabbing a white, star-shaped pebble and placing it on Jehan's leg, “And because I just got out of a meeting with Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Feuilly, and it's been decided that you will be going back to the mainland next month when the next supply boat comes to Corfu. And I didn't want Enjolras to know I told you, he wants to keep it a secret until the last moment for there to be no discussions when the time comes.”

“Then why are you telling me?”

“Because you're my friend,” answers Bahorel, frowning, “And I do not obey everything Enjolras tells me to do, he is not my father nor my chief. And besides, I do not wish for our parting to be brutal, little man.”

“I thank you for telling me,” answers Jehan, because he doesn't know what else to say. A month can go by awfully quickly. He fears a certain urgency might settle in between them, a desire to waste as little time as possible—for time is in a constant flight, time slips through one's fingers the way a dream escape's one's mind in the morning. Suddenly there is a terrible crushing sadness in his chest and he wishes he could have spent his time with Bahorel more productively, had not spent so long contemplating his melancholia on the beach. Already he senses his heart crush and mourn times that have yet to come. Bahorel pulls on an overgrown strand of hair gently to pull him out of his rêverie, and Jehan looks back at him.

“I know what you're thinking,” says Bahorel, “And I won't let you dwell in those negative feelings. Now come on, I'm going to teach you how to swim properly.”

“I can swim very well, thank you very much,” says Jehan, who could only ever be taught _la nage du petit chien_ as his swimming instructor had called it back in his youth and which consisted in rapid strokes and kicks (much like a little dog) which were energy consuming and rather unproductive. In truth he knew not how to swim as he never really had a need to learn at all despite growing up in a coastal city.

“You swim like a rock,” says Bahorel, “Meaning all you can do is sink. Now remove your shirt and legs vestment.”

“I will be naked.”

“I am literally _always_ naked, now come on, now is not the time for modesty.”

Jehan obeys and feels uncomfortable despite the fact that yes, it is true that the merfolks have no modesty—they never did bite into the forbidden fruit after all. Bahorel had already pushed himself back into the sea and Jehan follows him in, feeling immediately better when half his body is immersed. With his beginning of a beard and longish hair (he was trying to grow it out of his previously medieval bob), he feels very much like John the Baptist and before any more biblical references can insert themselves into the meanders of his mind he dunks his entire body into the cold waters and propels himself to a farther, deeper distance. Bahorel, gigantic as he is, does not even have to move to reach him.

“Alright then,” he says in his habitual deep voice, “Show me your tricks, manling.”

Jehan tries to heave his body above the water (Combeferre had told him it is easier to float in these waters due to the high salt level), but it seems unfeasible. He then attempts to take some distance instead and simply starts batting his arms rapidly to stay afloat all while kicking the water with as much vigour, and Bahorel immediately stops him.

“You have got to be in tune with the water, go to the same rhythm, the same cadence. Look.”

He illustrates his words by offering a beautiful, graceful move involving the whole length of his body and tail in one, long undulation that propels him to a much farther distance. His back muscles flex under the sun kissed, glistening skin in a most elegant manner.

“You cannot possibly expect me to do that,” says Jehan, half annoyed and half in awe over the beauty of that move.

“I am going to teach you how to use your unfortunate hind limbs to your advantage,” explains Bahorel as he swims back towards him, “I have already had very enlightening conversations with Joly over this—the functioning of human legs, I mean. With the amount of lives lost at sea per year in these waters, it is easy to study the functioning of the human body.”

There is a brief silence, where Bahorel seems to realise that his words are not quite subtle and rather morbid in an unaestheticised way. He then pushes Jehan back into action.

They spend what feels like hours training, and Bahorel shows him all the arm moves he know of—crawl, back crawl, the frog, the butterfly—all the leg moves he believes will ease human swimming (and he is usually right in his suppositions), laughs at him when he shows signs of sinking as he gargles onto salt water, amicably splashes waves at him when they're in shallow areas, and and at the end of the day, when Jehan no longer has the muscular capacity to push himself through the water without risking to drown, they reach back for the pebble beach, Jehan puts his clothes back on with trembling arms and legs, and Bahorel swims them back to Corfu. He is an efficient teacher—a much better one than Monsieur Désiré, the swimming instructor his parents had payed for in his youth, could ever be. He is very thankful for this lesson—not because he learned how to swim rather rapidly, but because it was a way to alleviate the tension and spend some quality time together and which he shall cherish for his remaining days.

When they reach the creak, the sun is already setting and melting into the sea, resembling one enormous carmine eye. The first stars are already appearing in the scarlet sky and the moon is merely a thin crescent. The Corfu night sky is completely different to the French one—it is clearer, for one, but it feels almost as though gazing at an entirely different galaxy despite there being the same constellations that loomed over the Parisian skies. There are a billion more stars here, illuminating the firmament and turning Corfu an iridescent shade of blue.

“Thank you,” he tells Bahorel as he collapses onto the sand in his soaked clothes, “For this lovely afternoon. I believe I have not done so much sport since my school days.”

“That explains a lot,” answers Bahorel in a laugh, and already Jehan is removing his shirt to wring the water out of it, revealing his ribs and little rolls of fat falling out of his trousers.

“Psht! No need to be so discriminating. I was never one conceived for sports. My mother was always awfully terrified something horrible would happen to me were I to practice too much horse riding, or too much fencing for instance—she also strongly condemned the act of masturbation as she claimed it was sinful and led young boys to an early grave (she read this in a news article, I believe). Therewith, I was doomed to die by the age of fifteen if I dared indulge in these sports and other immoral practices.”

Bahorel, grinning widely and lounging in the sand, pressed his chin in his hands as he watches Jehan; “And tell me, did you indulge in these practices—horse riding, fencing, _et al_.?”

“ _Of_ _course_ , and Mother never did find out about any of it—doing it behind her back made it all a whole more sacrilegious.”

“Oh, must everything be about religion?”

“It always will be,” answers Jehan, “In the non-traditional sense of the word, however. I would never condone love making for purely religious, matrimonial reasons—I only believe that there is something very godly, very divine and blasphemous in the act of self-pleasure and passionate love— _l'amour libre_ , etc. I feel closer to God in those moments than in any other moments of my life.”

Bahorel now looks at him with a rather bemused look, as though he isn't quite certain what to answer to that very intimate confession, and Jehan feels awkward for having shared something like this with Bahorel, a merman who will never understand what it means to have a cock.

“I hate divinities too much to consider pleasuring myself to any of them,” he finally says, and Jehan shrugs his shoulders.

“My relation to religion is a complex one, buried deep in mortal sin and a helpless desire to believe in something ethereal, something pure and benevolent, something that looks over the world with great love and compassion.”

“Not quite sure I understand your whole masochistic devotion to your god but I guess I can respect it.”

Jehan smiles and slips his shirt back on once he has finished wringing all the water out of it. His trousers are feeling too tight as they soak around his legs, and are made heavier by all the sand sticking onto them, but he figures he can simply change them once he gets back to the house he, Combeferre and Pontmercy are momentarily living in.

He leaves Bahorel soon thereafter and heads back to the village. He sees, on his way there, Pontmercy talking with both Éponine and Cosette as slowly they pull him a little farther into the water and Pontmercy obliviously lets them, too enthralled by their words to notice anything, and he listens for a moment from behind a bush, though nothing much happens. He mostly hears Pontmercy speak about his undying devotion to seemingly _both_ women (interesting development) all while they attempt to make more serious talk. He stops when Combeferre creeps up behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“You shouldn't spy on people like that,” he says and Jehan feels his face flush.

“You know I love a good gossip,” he replies.

“You should try talking to Courfeyrac then, he knows everything about everyone. Speaking of which, where were you today? I was looking for you but seemingly no one knew where you'd gone to.”

“Bahorel taught me how to swim.”

“Was it productive?”

“Very,” answers Jehan, “I could abandon my life as a poet and become a _maître nageur_ now.”

Combeferre helps him up from his crouching position behind the bush with benign eyes and they walk back together towards the village. They help an old lady pull water out of the well and then prepare themselves for dinner with the other villagers (they have now become accustomed enough with them, despite the strong language barrier to share their bread—it all feels very heartwarming). It is another thing Jehan will come to miss, he believes.

-

The days are spent thus way: Jehan goes to the beach, he meets up with Bahorel who takes him to their little uninhabited island, they swim, splash in the water, have heartfelt conversations, go back to Corfu, eat ripe fruits and let its juice dribble carelessly down chins as they joke and laugh and talk some more, sometimes Jehan will recite his poetry which Bahorel will take a delight in commenting in the most constructive and argumentative way, they will let their hearts talk to each other for hours, and Jehan doubts that he has ever felt this close to anyone else in his entire life; even Héliodore, his mad poet friend who was, last time Jehan had seen him, exposing his body to all sorts of strange experiments, such as unguents applied in a certain area in an attempt to grow said certain areas.

There is an undeniable intimacy that grows in between them in these haste-filled days, a desire to make most of what little time they are spared. Many times they must tend to duties or must endure the presence of others—it becomes a most unbearable thing when one is so aware of the flight of time, when one wishes for nothing but loneliness. Jehan does not resent Combeferre or Feuilly or anyone for wishing to spend time with them too—only it almost feels as though they are doing it on purpose to waste away precious minutes. Of course this is not the case and Jehan knows this, but the little nagging voice at the back of his head still tells him that the time spent now in Combeferre's presence is time he will never have again with Bahorel. It leaves a painful wound in his heart.

On one sleepless night (Combeferre's snoring has become too unbearable and he has not become desperate enough to consider sharing the other cot with Marius), he heads to the beach. The semicircle moon shines bright and blue and Hydra snakes its way across the great firmament. The sand is cool under his bare feet and a soft, salty breeze kisses gently his skin. He sinks into the sand and lies on his back to contemplate the stars and constellations with greater care, quickly losing himself in the infinity of the universe.

He doesn't hear the splashes of water that signal someone is getting out of the water. He does not hear the soft ' _psst_ ', and thus, when Bahorel appears next to him and loudly says “ _HO_!” to catch his attention, he starts in surprise and lets out an involuntary gasp. He has crawled up to him onto the sand, his long, red tail glimmering purple under the moonlight. He is laughing.

“Apologies,” he says, “I was daydreaming.”

“Can't sleep?”

Jehan sits up and shrugs his shoulders. Bahorel is leaning very close to him, his skin almost brushing his own.

“Not really, my bedmate is too loud.”

“That sounds incredibly inappropriate.”

“It is.”

Bahorel laughs, then they fall into silence. They embrace their surroundings and let nature rock them gently into a peaceful state of mind—it is a most pleasant feeling. The beach is bathed in this opalescent light that bounces so brightly off the white sand that, despite it being past three o'clock in the morning, it feels as though it is daytime. Bahorel radiates so much heat that Jehan almost wants to get closer still, to let their skin brush, just to feel that little bit of extra warmth. He does not dare. After a while, Bahorel speaks up.

“Well, I couldn't sleep either. Isn't that a marvelous coincidence?”

Jehan has to admit that it is. The gentle lapping of the waves fills a breach between them.

“And why couldn't you sleep?”

“I had too many things on my mind that required evacuation.”

“Such as?”

Bahorel's dark eyes burn with a fantastic intensity. He edges closer, just enough for their arms to touch. There are many unspoken words in that look and so many emotions that Jehan does not know how to read and as the answer slips from Bahorel's lips, Jehan holds his breath and almost feels like his heart has skipped a beat, or has fallen deep in his gut the way it can sometimes do when trapped inside a carriage riding that is on a bumpy road.

“I don't want you to leave.”

 _Oh_ , thinks Jehan, and his mind reaches a blank spot. He is at a loss for words, perhaps for the first time in a very long time. He knows not what to do so he scoots closer still to Bahorel until he can see the slightest flecks of green in his irises. It feels as though suddenly time has slowed as their eyes do not break the contact, as their hands reach for one another. It is a most fascinating phenomenon, how much can be transmitted through the simple act of gazing into each other's eyes, of looking into each other's soul. The messages, the thousands of unspoken words that could never be conveyed into speech that are shared only by one long, meaningful glance—there is something pure, something that goes back to the very essence of mankind, something so intimate about it. To know that one can know all your secrets by simply reading your soul like an open book, to know-

“I don't want to leave either.”

And yet... and yet there are two weeks left before the boat arrives and takes him, Combeferre and Pontmercy away, to Athens, where they shall take a boat back to France. Jehan has told himself that he would not count the days until he has to go, but it seems like an impossible endeavour, every day, every hour, every second slips away drop by drop, and before anyone has even the time to comprehend what is happening, a month has gone by. The inevitability is there: every thought, every moment is but a memory before his mind has even finished to formulate the sentences he wishes to develop. There is no such thing as present—only past, future, and a fragile, almost imperceptible line in between, there to delimit the moment future becomes past.

Jehan blinks. Suddenly he is pulled back to the beach by some strange force and he hears the howling wind and the sound of waves lapping close by and crashing in the distance. Crickets are singing their ode to the moon, somewhere in the distance.

“Did you know I'd come here?” he finds himself asking, changing the subject of the conversation entirely. Bahorel looks at him with mild surprise in his hooded eyes and tears his gaze away for just a moment, breaking the connection. Jehan wants to grab his face to make him look back at him, but he beats him at it as they eyes meet once again.

“Maybe,” he answers, “You always do come out on warmer nights, late after midnight.”

“You've noticed.”

“Of _course_.”

A silence falls in between them—it is pleasant.

“The more the days advance,” then starts Jehan, “The more I wished you hadn't told me when we were to depart. Perhaps I would have been happier not knowing when this small taste of paradise will end. Ignorance would have made me a happier man.”

“You wouldn't have,” answered Bahorel, simply.

“You have no idea how I would feel.”

“I do,” Jehan, slightly frustrated, turns his gaze away and stares at the sea, the to and fro of the waves, the moon, reflecting upon the ink black water like spilled milk. Bahorel sits up from his lounging position and places a hand upon Jehan's shoulder. He says; “If you believe this to be paradise then I am glad you will not be trapped here forever—all things are ephemeral and so is this. You must cherish these memories, not regret them. You must simply see this as an idyllic parenthesis in your life, a brief intermittence. A dream.”

Jehan grabs a fistful of sand and throws it ahead of him and watches as it forms and ark in the air and trickles back to the ground by the abiding laws of gravity. He feels like weeping, suddenly, and it is ugly, it is atrocious that he must feel this way, that he must be afflicted with such pain, such melancholia. It is the spleen bubbling within, the curse of the Poet.

“But I don't _want_ that,” he manages to speak, “I don't want to leave here. I don't want to leave _you_.”

Bahorel allows himself just then to touch his face, and Jehan almost shudders. It is fleeting, and before he knows it, it is over. He still has the physical strength to turn sideways, to look back at Bahorel's handsome face, and just then, just in that moment he feels a hundred fires set in his chest.

“You must,” answers Bahorel, and Jehan wishes he would touch his cheek again. Instead, he leans closer, slowly, and, in a much deeper, much lower voice asks: “Do you give me permission to kiss you?”

Jehan does nothing else than nod his head. Bahorel takes his face in his hands with all the gentleness in the world, and almost chastely he presses his lips to his own, tilting his head sideways for their noses not to bump. Jehan switches position and climbs to his knees, deepens the kiss and lets weeks and weeks of repressed emotions surge out at once. It is _bliss_.

-

Kissing Bahorel becomes addictive, more still than the substances he may indulge in with friends in the brothels and dens of Paris. Knowing that it has become feasible and is not only a vague idea somewhere in the winding of his brain, it becomes an omnipresent thought. Swimming lessons are interrupted regularly for a kiss after surging out of the water or while sitting on a deserted beach. At night, Jehan thinks of the feeling it brings within, the way it feels like a knot untying itself deep in his chest, and he longs for it, desperately. He considers asking Combeferre to kiss him just to remedy to his desperation when the feeling becomes too intense, but he knows not whether his friend would be open to such practices, and therefore holds this blessed ache deep within.

It becomes common for them to meet every night. The days, more than ever before slip from their fingers like grains of sand and they wish to make the most out of what little they have left. They're once caught by Grantaire, a merman Jehan isn't well acquainted with, and who finds nothing else to do than whistle at them. Bahorel dunks his head under water and tells him to piss off. Grantaire laughs but does as told nevertheless.

The last week is the most painful and most intense—both wish to preserve and retain as much of what the other has to offer. There is a desperation which both had tried to avoid until then, but as the days go by in the blink of an eye, they feel as though they have no choices. Soon the others notice as well. Combeferre alongside a few merfolk make subliminal allusions to it—neither of them care anymore. Grantaire teases relentlessly, Bahorel shuts him up by asking how his own love life with a certain fair-headed merman is going.

“Piss off,” he mumbles, splashing excessive water with his olive green tail in their general direction as he dives back under water.

There are a thousand verses and rhymes that go through his head at the thought of Bahorel's lips on his skin, of his own lips tasting Bahorel's—the taste of the lingering sea water, the softness of them, the right amount of strength that is put into the kiss—it is all so wonderful. Many times Jehan tries to compose odes and sonnets and ballads, but none can convey the feeling he is affected with. And so he says only one thing: _kiss me, kiss me again one last time before the sun rises_.

-

On the last night we shall not speak of what happens—only it is terrible no matter how much Bahorel tries to reassure Jehan that this is not the end of the world, merely the end of a story and the beginning of a new one. Jehan almost regrets letting himself fall for him in the first place, to have submitted himself to such afflictions, to fall prey to these violent passions his mother would have condemned harshly and which he has always been bound to subject himself to. He was destined to live a passionate life, he was always an emotional, sensitive boy despite his parents' attempts to repress this side of him as much as possible, in vain (Werther could change any man). This was why he was always bound to be a Romantic and more importantly, a Poet. One must be affected with the curse of too much sentimentality, with great sorrow, with the spleen, in order to be a Poet. His father had always told him he'd end up dead in a ditch by the time he would be twenty-five—he had replied that it was the best way to leave this hell they are condemned to live in.

When the morning comes and the boat for Athens arrives, Enjolras announces that they (Jehan, Combeferre, Pontmercy) are to leave, and everyone has to act surprised, for everyone already knew. Jehan is so pained there is no need to pretend. Bahorel gives him the star-shaped pebble he had apparently kept from that time on his uninhabited, little island and Jehan offers him his handkerchief with his embroidered initials despite it being of little use to a merling. He has nothing else to give—perhaps a strand oh his hair, but it is too late.

“I will never, ever forget these weeks spent by your side,” he whispers, leaning over the deck above the water, holding Bahorel's hand tightly. Bahorel gave it a meaningful squeeze and tries to smile, but Jehan can see it is pained. Tears spring into his eyes and pearl down his cheeks, and he offers a kiss to his big, wet hand. Bahorel seizes his face and presses a kiss to his lips—a kiss of farewell, a kiss of thank you.

They climb aboard the ship and Jehan cannot bear to look at Combeferre who seems insistent on making eye contact. Jehan considers throwing himself at sea and let himself be saved by Bahorel a second time. He cannot. He watches Corfu as it slowly blurs and disappears into the distance. When Jehan can no longer see it, he goes into his cabin and weeps.

_Ainsi, toujours poussés vers de nouveaux rivages,_  
_Dans la nuit éternelle emportés sans retour,_  
_Ne pourrons-nous jamais sur l'océan des âges_  
_Jeter l'ancre un seul jour ?_

-

Of course, his trip to Egypt was canceled. It took months for his belongings to be shipped back to France. When they finally arrive, half the books he had taken with him have disappeared. He does not mourn them, they shall please another reader.

He meets up with Combeferre again in Paris, three months after the incidents that had occurred. Jehan almost doesn't recognise him, having gotten used to the scruffy appearance he had borne for months on that little island. He is cleaner, well-shaved, his hair shorter and well combed. He is a handsome man, the same Jehan had met on board L'Intrépide. They talk a great deal of things of little importance. Suddenly it is difficult to hold deeper conversations with him, almost as though their trip to Egypt, and then their shared experience on Corfu was what had brought them together in the first place. Jehan however refuses to believe that. Slowly he wounds his way around the barrier holding them apart, and Combeferre seems to be thankful for it—the zoologist is even less of a conversationalist than he is. They end up moving in together—Héliodore has become too insufferable, too eccentric even for someone as eccentric as Jehan, so it is the perfect timing.

In the Summer of '31, he goes home to Camargue for a while. He spends most days out in the country, walking, losing himself in his musings and in the sinews of his mind. It is comforting to be back home, to let the salty wind rock him into this familiar homeliness.

He sees him again in late August, some days before he has to go back to Paris. He is walking barefoot on the beach, holding his shoes in one hand and his jacket in the other, trying to figure how to make _belle Bradamante_ rhyme with _charmante_ in an Alexandrine. He hears the abnormal splash of water first, like someone surging from the waves, and immediately he snaps out of his rêverie and starts when he sees him. He hasn't changed one bit, still as long, still as toned, still as handsome and strong, with those eyes sparkling with a thousand fires.

“You!” he cries, and runs towards the water, dropping his jacket and shoes into the sand and falling onto his knees in the smallest waves that are already froth more than water. Bahorel seizes him in a tight embrace and Jehan lets him soak his clothes, lets the wetness and the coolness seep in and touch his skin once more. He feels the tears pouring down his cheeks, tears of happiness, and right there, he feels like he would die if Bahorel let go.

“Enjolras told me he saw you in the area,” he whispers, and Jehan sniffs loudly in response.

“Bless his soul! Oh, how I've missed you, dearest friend!”

“I have missed you too, my little poet.”

Jehan cannot help but snort in a most inelegant manner at the appellation. He swats Bahorel's toned, muscled back gently and lets his face fall into his neck. It is comforting. If any man was to walk by in that moment, Jehan knew not what would happen—thankfully this side of the beach is always deserted, it is Jehan's own secret little lair. So he takes in as much as he can from that embrace.

They talk for hours of everything that has happened in these years apart, and when the sun begins to set into the great golden sea, they promise to meet again the next morning. Jehan ignores his mother's reproaches when he walks back home drenched in sea water, but he decides to ignore her and simply changes for dinner.

The next day goes by as did the first, and the third one as well. On the fourth day, Jehan announces that he sadly has to go back to Paris on the next day, and Bahorel is clearly upset by this; he jokes about pulling him into the depths of the sea for him never to come back, and Jehan laughs to hide the fact he perhaps would have liked that more than anything in the world. When the sun sets on that night, Jehan begs for time to stop at once and for them never to part ways again. Bahorel promises to come back the next summer. Jehan promises he'll be there too.

When Bahorel leaves, Jehan watches him disappear into the golden sea, and he does not cry, he categorically refuses to do so, for he knows he shall see him again.

As he walks home, he composes a single stanza, and he gazes back at the sea one last time before heading back home.

_Depuis que le soleil, dans l'horizon immense,  
A franchi le Cancer sur son axe enflammé,  
Le bonheur m'a quittée, et j'attends en silence  
L'heure où m'appellera mon ami bien-aimé. _

**Author's Note:**

> this was what i had to offer for barricade day 2020 :) hope you enjoyed!  
> the two (romantic) poems i've included are called le lac (lamartine) and la nuit d'août (musset).  
> here are approximate translations:  
> le lac:  
> so driven onward to new shores forever,  
> into the eternal night swept away,  
> upon the sea of time can we not ever  
> drop anchor for one day?
> 
> la nuit d'août:  
> ever since the sun in the immense horizon  
> has reached the Cancer on its inflamed axis  
> happiness has left me, and i await in silence  
> the hour at which my beloved friend shall call my name
> 
> the heights and measurements mentioned are all in old parisian feet; so combeferre is about 5’7” in modern anglo-saxon measurements, enjolras ~6’4.5”, joly ~6’1.5” and bahorel ~6’7”


End file.
